


Red Light of Dawn

by GriegPlants



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Kissing, Kissing the Wrist and/or Palm, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Sunrises, Sunsets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23010022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GriegPlants/pseuds/GriegPlants
Summary: The sunrise can't happen until a sunset precedes it.
Relationships: Dark Sun Gwyndolin/Solaire of Astora
Comments: 18
Kudos: 45
Collections: Writing Rainbow Red





	Red Light of Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alana/gifts).



Solaire’s footsteps echoed off the high stone ceiling of the hall. His companion, gliding beside him on serpentine appendages, made little sound in comparison.

As they proceeded along the empty corridor, Solaire watched Gwyndolin through his helm’s narrow ocularium. Earlier, the Dark Sun had been recounting tales of past times in Anor Londo, through which the two now wandered, but he had gone silent now and had an air of melancholy.

* * *

It reminded Solaire of when they had first met, in the solemn tomb beneath the city. Heading below in search of a bonfire or further adventure, Solaire had been glad to find the former, and had sat down before a great statue only to leap to his feet in shock when it dissolved into nothingness. Beyond lay a staircase, which he followed to its end.

As he stood among the candles there, gazing at the gate of fog and considering whether he ought to return and rest at the bonfire before venturing forth, a voice had spoken from the air, forbidding him entrance to the tomb of Lord Gwyn.

‘If thou art a true disciple of the Dark Sun, cast aside thine ire, hear the voice of mineself, Gwyndolin, and kneel before me,’ the voice had urged.

‘The Dark Sun? I’ve not heard of you,’ Solaire replied, curiously. ‘I am a warrior of the Sun.’

‘No covenant is known to me by that name, though it recalleth a distant memory - art thou then a follower of my brother, the Great Lord’s firstborn?’

‘Lord Gwyn’s eldest? Yes. I never knew he had a third child. I’ve heard only of his firstborn and Gwynevere, the Princess of Sunlight.’

‘I am his thirdborn,’ the voice said, a little slowly. Then: ‘Father Gwyn cast out my brother, but his knights were ever faithful. Thou servst even now, though his name is perish’st since ages past. I shall grant a boon to thee in memory of him, if thou wish’t.’

‘Oh, well! How kind. Hm. I really don’t know what to ask for.’

‘Though thou art not a Blade of the Darkmoon, one of mine own knights, I might protect thee on thy journey.’

‘That’s certainly not an offer to throw away lightly. But I’ve needed no protection so far. I have some friends – other warriors of the Sun – and we can usually rely on one another.

‘I’m tempted to ask for stories of your brother,’ Solaire went on, ‘but I’m too fascinated by your title. The Dark Sun! No, no, I think the only thing I can ask for my boon is to meet you in person.’

The stairwell was silent. Solaire looked around, wondering if this mysterious Gwyndolin was going to walk out of the fog gate or appear elsewhere out of nowhere, by magic. With Lord Gwyn for a father, it was apparent that Gwyndolin must be at least half a deity.

But no one appeared out of the shadows. Instead, after nearly a minute had passed, the voice responded.

‘Such a request is blasphemy,’ it said – then, cautiously, ‘but I cannot deny a boon, once promised. And thou knew’st not for what thou asked.’

Through the cloudy mist in the doorway, a tall, thin outline formed, seeming to glide towards Solaire. The knight squinted to make out the figure, which was moving rather slowly and with an air almost of hesitance. It appeared for the most part to be human, or human in shape, though in the shadows near the floor it... spread out in a way that even a long robe or skirt did not, exactly, do. About its head was an outline that seemed quite familiar to the knight.

As the fog cleared, Solaire gave a happy chuckle. The crown upon the figure’s head was very like the emblem adorning his own chest, a stylised depiction of the sun.

At the sound of the knight’s laugh, the figure – Gwyndolin - halted and shrunk somewhat, the coiling shapes beneath the hem of the flowing waistcloth twisting together oddly. Thinking that perhaps he had been too loud, especially in the silence below the city, Solaire stepped forward with a hand outstretched in friendly fashion.

‘I am Solaire of Astora,’ he said, somewhat hushed.

Gwyndolin’s half-hidden face tilted down to look at the knight’s extended arm. After a moment, a thin, gloved hand emerged from beneath the silky robe to rest carefully upon Solaire’s fingers. Raising his helmet for a moment, the knight kissed Gwyndolin’s fingers gallantly. The pale hand twitched and withdrew immediately.

‘I’m sorry - I’m not certain what the appropriate way to greet a deity might be,’ the knight apologised.

‘...Thy greeting was not unseemly,’ Gwyndolin replied, in a voice somewhat less echoey than than it had been from beyond the foggy gate. After that the deity seemed to have nothing more to say.

‘Well!’ Solaire offered after a moment, somewhat baffled by the awkward silence. ‘What a beautiful crown. Of course, I’m hardly impartial where the symbolism is concerned!’

At the knight’s remark, Gwyndolin seemed, intriguingly, to grow a few inches taller. The deity nodded in acknowledgement, golden-spiked head inclining slightly. Solaire was sorely tempted to glance down into the shadows at Gwyndolin’s... feet, but did not do so.

‘Why don’t we go up to the bonfire?’ asked the knight. ‘These stone rooms are cold, especially so far below the city.’

‘Rarely do I go beyond this hall,’ Gwyndolin said. ‘Duty preventeth it. Long hath I guarded the tomb of Father Gwyn - yet perhaps a brief departure wouldst not go amiss.’

‘Excellent!’ Solaire laughed again, then bowed and swept his arm out towards the stairs, which Gwyndolin ascended. This courtesy served a dual purpose; most simply, Solaire was charmed and fascinated by his new acquaintance and wished to be as polite as possible, but also, it gave him a chance to see what precisely coiled beneath the hem of Gwyndolin’s robe.

It was snakes. They crept sinuously up the stairs, carrying the deity smoothly over the steps and into the small round room with the bonfire at its heart. Solaire followed, finding Gwyndolin standing a little ways from the bonfire, looking up at the statues circling the room.

The knight sat down beside the fire, smiling at his companion, though of course his helmet hid the expression. After a moment the Dark Sun joined him, snakes spiralling outward to lower the deity to the floor. Though Gwyndolin sat quite still, the reptilian bodies coiled forward to bask in the heat of the flames.

Solaire had so many questions to ask that he barely knew where to start. Remembering that he had asked to see Gwyndolin in place of requesting information, he was careful at first to keep his inquiries confined to the deity at hand, but soon found that Gwyndolin was not opposed to discussing other matters.

Indeed, the god seemed rather pleased at the opportunity to talk with someone, if somewhat shy. He explained that he was Lord Gwyn’s third child and youngest son, but had not inherited the fiery power of his father and siblings, instead being inclined toward the moon. He seemed happier to talk about his family than about himself, and was also glad to converse at length on Anor Londo.

Gwyndolin also asked Solaire for his story, and the knight happily shared it, though his tone grew sadder as he spoke of the search for a sun of his own, which thus far had been in vain. Still, the Dark Sun seemed impressed at this goal, and their conversation grew easier and a little more intimate. Gwyndolin explained that while he had been frail and sickly from birth, the snakes – which he referred to as a repulsive malformation – were the result of later, ill-advised experimentation. He wouldn’t go into detail, but mentioned the name of Seath the Scaleless with a shudder.

Several hours had passed before Gwyndolin eventually rose, saying he should not spend so much time in the open. He turned to the shadowy staircase. Solaire, whose fascination with the deity had not waned but had been joined by a surprisingly strong attachment, sprang to his feet.

‘Well, can you really call this hidden room the open?’ he said. Gwyndolin stopped and looked back at him, expression difficult to read behind the masklike crown.

‘Perhaps not,’ the god said, ‘but speaking on times long past grieveth me. I wish to return to the city above and look on the places where once I tread, and that without doubt is too open. Though the city lieth empty, even thine eyes wouldst quail from my form in the full light of the Sun.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Solaire cried. ‘Besides, I certainly haven’t seen all the places you told me about in your tales. I should like to see them with you – if you don’t mind,’ he said, suddenly reminded that he was talking to a deity.

It was strange. Ever since devoting himself to the covenant of sunlight, he had imagined what it might be like to look upon Lord Gwyn or his nameless son, and had always pictured them as shining, towering figures, the sort which would render one speechless with awe. Gwyndolin was not like that at all, but Solaire found his company far more enjoyable than these imaginings.

‘No, brave warrior of sunlight; guarded must Father Gwyn’s tomb be always. I cannot leave it. And however hideous thou find’st me now, a hundred times worse would’st be up above.’

‘If the city is as empty as you say, Lord Gwyn’s tomb should be safe enough, don’t you think? As for finding you hideous, I don’t! So, as long as you want to do so, I don’t see why we shouldn’t both go up to the city.’

Gwyndolin hesitated. Solaire could not see most of his face, of course, but his posture seemed indecisive. On an impulse, Solaire stepped forward and once again took the deity’s hand, raised his helmet, and kissed Gwyndolin’s fingers, this time upon the palm. They were not yanked away; the Dark Sun seemed quite disconcerted, though.

‘If thou truly wish to go about the city, then...’ the deity trailed off, and then gathered his diaphanous robe about him and stood considerably taller than Solaire, the snakes drawing close together and stretching up. ‘I shalt recount tales of Anor Londo’s days of glory as we walk.’

Gwyndolin was true to his word. As Solaire followed him around the city, seeing hidden corners and secret views the knight would never have found alone, Gwyndolin told him tale after tale, each one as intriguing as the next. Some were grand stories of divine feats, others were intimate tales of days the Dark Sun had spent with his siblings during childhood. Solaire had not really thought of gods having childhoods before.

Solaire was also surprised to hear that the sun which eternally set above the walls of Anor Londo was illusory, as was the image of Gwynevere which lay beyond the dragonslayers’ hall. It seemed that Gwyndolin had chosen to keep the city as it was in the days of his father’s reign, though few undead ever made it this far. Solaire was the first in a very long time indeed.

* * *

Hours of walking crept on into days, with occasional rests at one bonfire or another, and so it was that Solaire and Gwyndolin had come to wander the quiet halls and empty rooms of Anor Londo. The denizens of the city which had obstructed Solaire’s exploration in prior times were strangely absent, or glimpsed only from a distance. Solaire supposed that they were avoiding Gwyndolin, though whether through fear or at the deity’s own command he did not know.

The hallway down which the pair now strode ended at the foot of a spiral staircase. Solaire stood aside for Gwyndolin to ascend first. At the top of the stairs, a pointed, arched doorway opened out onto a flat roof. The golden light of Anor Londo’s ever-setting sun stretched in long beams across the surface.

Gwyndolin drifted to the roof’s edge, gazing out across the vista of the city. Solaire followed him, taking a place at his side and watching the glowing sunset. Gwyndolin’s snakes coiled up, their heads rising near to waist-level to bring the god’s sun-crowned head on a level with Solaire’s.

‘I envy thee thine ignorance,’ Gwyndolin said. ‘Would that I also might gaze at the Sun without the knowledge that ‘tis merely a pale memory. Though thou knowst this same truth, now, thou hast not yet seen the city swathed in twilight, and this illusion giveth joy despite its transience. Or perhaps ‘tis thy nature to find joy where others cannot, whilst I only ever find grief.’

‘I have seen many suns,’ Solaire said. ‘I’m sure you know how oddly the flow of time runs in this land. It may be night here, but elsewhere the day is just beginning.’

‘Thy words hold truth, though they comfort me not. Those suns art not mine own, and never shalt I see them. ‘Tis the Sun over Anor Londo I miss so, and those who used to stand in its light.’

The deity’s thin shoulders slumped, and he sunk down a little, the snakes rising up as he did so. On a whim, Solaire reached out a finger and stroked one upon its small, scaly head. Startled, Gwyndolin turned to face him, and Solaire smiled at him before recalling that his face was hidden by a helmet. He reached up and took it off, tucking it under his arm.

The Dark Sun gazed at him, head tilted slightly as if puzzled. One of the other snakes curled around Solaire’s hand, and the knight wondered how much of the snakes’ movement was at Gwyndolin’s will and how much at their own. He was relatively sure that they were, to some extent, sentient and separate beings despite their bond to the deity.

‘If looking at the Sun makes you unhappy, why do you maintain the illusion?’ Solaire asked.

‘It is all that remaineth here of Father Gwyn.’

‘But it doesn’t bring you any joy.’

Gwyndolin was silent for a while. At last he nodded as if in decision, turning back to face the sunset.

‘There seemeth little use in clinging to the light of an age long dead. Once it might have granted solace in remembrance, but no longer is it enough for mineself.’

Gwyndolin raised a spindly arm and trailed his fingers along the distant silhouette of Anor Londo’s walls. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the clouds at the edges of the sky began to darken as though in a gathering storm, but at an unnaturally rapid pace. The light faded; the setting sun dimmed and was replaced by a pallid moon drifting high overhead.

Gwyndolin dropped his arm with a sigh, turning away from the twilit view and gliding over to a bench at the edge of the roof. He pulled the spiked crown from his head and set it down. Without the metal mask, he looked surprisingly human; an uncanny youthfulness lingered in the smooth lines of his face, but the lines around his eyes belied it.

Solaire sat down beside him. Without the warmth of the sun – and had that been part of the illusion too, or was it a result of mere imagination? - the air over the roof was cold.

‘Why not leave Anor Londo?’ Solaire asked. ‘Lord Gwyn’s tomb should be safe, especially if I keep this ring when I go. You could find your very own Sun along with me; we could find one together.’

‘No, Solaire of Astora. Perchance one day thou shalt find thy Sun, but such is not my fate. Never could I be a worthy successor of the Great Lord; I shalt linger in the cold twilight ‘til the flame dieth at last.’

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ said Solaire. ‘You’re called the Dark Sun, and the moon reflects the light of the Sun as well. Whether or not you want to succeed Lord Gwyn yourself, I know that I feel closer to finding my own Sun now than I ever have before.’ His voice was soft, and Gwyndolin leaned in to hear him.

‘In this darkness? How?’

Solaire laughed. ‘Oh, it’s difficult to explain. It is a feeling.’ He leaned closer to Gwyndolin, and the deity did not pull away. Very gently, Solaire kissed him.

* * *

They left Anor Londo soon after, traversing Sen’s Fortress and then the Undead Burg without difficulty or haste. The strange, inconsistent flow of time in Lordran kept the skies outside Anor Londo bright enough, illuminated by the murky light seeping in between the clouds.

When at last they reached Firelink Shrine, something was different. It took Solaire a little while to figure out what it was. But in the distance, beyond the crumbling walls and the branches of the vast trees, a line of faint red light heralded a coming sunrise.


End file.
